


Put Love On

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jewish Identity, Languages, Letters, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Letters, M/M, Memories, Names, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Pet Names, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Sleep, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stargazing, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Weddings, Weird Uncles Aziraphale & Crowley, Whump, ace crowley, sort of. jewish concepts are discussed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-06-07 18:04:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19474480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: Ficlet collection from tumblr.Latest:Aziraphale has a lot to apologize for.





	1. Pet Names

The thing is, when you live so long, you forget a _lot_ of things. 

Like, where Crowley was when the Black Plague started, he doesn’t remember. Where he was when the French Revolution ended, he doesn’t remember (he does remember the crepes were pretty good, but that’s neither here nor there). 

_Languages!_ Crowley could do without languages. Messy human business, that. There was a certain pleasure to them--learning a hundred different ways to tell someone to _fuck off_ was rather satisfying, and some of those languages got pretty creative on the delivery of the cursing. And of course, demons could take all the credit they want for mistranslations (Crowley in particular took credit for Google Translate), but mostly that was all human business. They spoke a lot of languages, those humans, and there were a lot of glorious ways to mess that up. 

So, it really shouldn’t be surprising that, though he’d learned many of them (or--bits and pieces, at least) over his 6,000 year lifespan, Crowley had forgotten a _lot_ of languages. Akkadian spends a couple hundred years dead, and _whoop_ , that one’s gone. Hittite he’d forgotten almost immediately. And they didn’t have to be a dead language for him to forget it, either. Mostly, he just falls out of practice.

The thing about Aziraphale is that he reads _a lot_. He’s reading _constantly_ , whatever books he can get his hands on, in whatever language they happen to be in. And he _loves_ translations. He once spent a week reading every translation of a book he didn’t even like, just to see if he’d like it better in a different language. So, things slip into his vocabulary. Just little phrases, little words. And Crowley notices them—it doesn’t just get translated like their speech does for humans. When Aziraphale wants to say _je ne sais quoi,_ that’s what he says. Not their celestial equivalent, but the actual French. And French is what Crowley hears.

Some things, he understands. Some, he picks up on in time. Some things, though, he swears Aziraphale says just to mess with him.

Like when he scoots past him at the table, letting loose a little, “Excuse me, _grazie, cuore mio_.” And if Aziraphale’s ears look a little pink, well, that’s probably the wine getting to him.

Or when Crowley casually offers up some trinket he’s procured at the shops, just a little thing that he knows the angel would love, some bookmark or a new mug, and Aziraphale beams and says, “I’ll treasure it, _Schatz_.” Well, that must mean thank you.

When they finally get around to trying that Korean place that’s opened up near Crowley’s flat, and the waiter sets the meals on the table in front of them. Well, Crowley might be imagining the waiter’s smile when Aziraphale says, “ _Meokja, yeo-bo._ ” He might’ve imagined the waiter’s smile, but he’ll find he has a flat tire when he’s done with his shift all the same, just for being in on the joke.

It’s all the little things that build up—a “ _golubchik_ ” here, a “ _lirvaya, yakir”_ there. A lot of the time, he means to google them, but the sounds slip out of his brain before he can get back to his flat and pull up Google Translate (which, okay, admittedly, was not his doing).

It takes one last “ _mi cielito_ ” before Crowley finally snaps.

“I _know_ these languages!” he shouts, and Aziraphale raises his eyebrows at the sudden outburst. They’re just in the bookshop, at least, so there’s no one around to hear them. “Or, at least—I mean, I recognize them. I know _of them_ , I—” He huffs, crossing his arms and then uncrossing them. “But these words, I swear I’ve never heard them before in my life.”

Aziraphale, damn the bastard, actually looks a little sad at that. “Never?”

“I- No, never. At least, I don’t think.”

“Well.” He tries to pull on a smile. “We shall have to remedy that, won’t we, my love?”

And _that’s_ … that’s when it all starts to slot together for Crowley. Suddenly, all these little phrases start to make sense. It’s not Aziraphale showing off, or taunting him—two things which would probably make more sense for Crowley to do.

_Won’t we, my love?_

Crowley’s ears go pink.

“Still need a dictionary?” Aziraphale says, and, okay, there may be just a pinch of teasing involved.

“Uuuhm. No, no, I think I got it, uh …” Crowley wracks his brain. He’s holding a hand out for any language he can think of, but most of them are just giving him inventive insults. “My … cinnamon?”

God. Fourteenth century. Why did his brain have to go 14th century?

He winces as Aziraphale laughs, standing and crossing over to him. He’s still chuckling as he reaches down to press a kiss into Crowley’s hair.

“It’s alright, my dear,” he says. “You’ll get better at it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations: 
> 
> grazie, cuore mio = thank you, my heart (italian) 
> 
> Schatz = treasure (german) 
> 
> Meokja, yeo-bo = let’s eat, darling (used for married couples) (korean) 
> 
> golubchik = darling (russian) 
> 
> lirvaya, yakir = may we quench our thirst/let’s drink, beloved (hebrew) 
> 
> mi cielito = my sky (spanish)


	2. Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my origins as a whump writer reveal themselves ........ 
> 
> (cw for gunshot, blood, and related injury stuff)

“The longer you stare, the more likely I am to discorporate,” Crowley says, one hand waving for Aziraphale to step aside, the other pressed hard against his stomach. “So if you could, oh, I don’t know, move out of the doorway, that would be lovely.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth snaps shut, and he shuffles back from the door. Crowley gives him an appreciative nod as he moves into the bookshop. 

“That’s a- That’s--” 

Crowley’s eyes roll. 

“That’s a gunshot.” 

“Yes, angel.” 

“You got _shot_.” 

“Marvelous that you put that together. So quick on your feet.” 

Aziraphale gathers his wits and huffs, aiding Crowley to the couch. “Well, excuse me for being surprised. My line of work isn’t as dangerous as yours. I haven’t seen a bloody job in hundreds of years.”

“When you’re a demon, there’s a lot of ‘wrong place, wrong time’. Usually I _am_ the ‘wrong place, wrong time’, you know?” Crowley pauses, taking a few labored breaths as Aziraphale helps ease him down onto the cushions. Now that he’s close, now that he’s paying attention, Aziraphale can see how pale and clammy the demon’s skin has become. “Been shot before. Stabbed a number of times. Nasty burn once, still have the scar. But it- uh- wasn’t my work, actually, this time.” 

Aziraphale’s hand settles over Crowley’s as his eyes snap up, kneeling in front of him. Crowley’s lost his glasses somewhere in the mess, and his eyes are pained and averted. “The miracle?” 

“Think I’m rusty,” Crowley says, and then turns to cough into his shoulder. The black blood almost blends with his shirt, but it shines. “The bullet curved miraculously. Strong wind, must have been. Missed the girl. Hit something else.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes sting with tears. “You foolish boy,” he mutters, the guilt already gnawing at his gut. “I didn’t mean for this.” 

“It happened performing a miracle, so if Hell finds out ... Well, anyway, that’s why--” He twists his hand around the room. “Wouldn’t have bothered you, otherwise.” 

“Don’t be daft,” Aziraphale says. He can feel how cold Crowley’s hand is growing under his. “So I’ll just- um- fix this, then, shall I?” 

“If you would,” Crowley says, and it’s a testament to his pain that he doesn’t come back with a quip. A pained hiss escapes him, his head slamming back. “Who invented stomach acid? Had to be Upstairs, yeah? Creation of man thing. Seems a demon job to me.” 

“It _hit your stomach?”_

“Please, angel, if you could be quick.” 

It was a miracle that Crowley had held on this long, Aziraphale thinks, and then quickly corrects himself. It was a miracle that had caused this mess in the first place. One that was supposed to be his. And that was the exact reason the demon was in so much trouble. 

He removes Crowley’s hand, and Crowley hisses again as the wound is exposed to the air. It’s bled a lot, and his clothes are slick with it. It’s getting all over Aziraphale’s couch, he thinks, somewhere in the part of his mind that doesn’t want to be in this situation, and would much rather be tidying the shop or fixing tea. 

“Hold on to something,” Aziraphale says, and is startled when the something Crowley reaches for is _him_. 

Their hands link. Crowley’s grip is cold but firm. 

And Aziraphale flexes his hand, and the bullet pulls right out, and all the acid that had escaped dribbles out after it. It’s gruesome, really, but not so much as Crowley’s shout and the spasm of his grip. 

The wound seals right up like it was never there. 

“All done,” Aziraphale says quickly. The black-blooded bullet lies in his hand, sticky with fluids. The metal clatters to the floor. The blood and acid is wiped on the couch. He’ll have to get a new one, anyway. “See, all done. All better. Nothing to worry about, you’re fine.” 

Crowley hunches forward, exhausted, until his forehead rests on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Their hands unlatch, and Aziraphale’s arm snakes its way around the demon’s waist. 

“All better,” he says, his hand starting to move up and down his back. The other remains on the couch, a tacky reminder. Crowley’s ragged breathing is loud this close, but he’s glad, at least, that he won’t be able to see the tears that have flooded Aziraphale’s eyes. “Crowley,” he says. “I don’t think we should do this anymore. The arrangement, I mean.” 

Crowley hums. 

“it’s too dangerous.” 

A deep breath shudders in and out of the demon. “Might be for the best.” 

“But that doesn’t mean--” He pauses. He feels silly saying it, after all of this. 

“What?” 

“That you can’t still come around.” 

Slowly, Crowley’s arms rise to wrap around him. 

“Nothing could stop me.” 


	3. Ace Crowley

Crowley stiffens. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to notice, but he does.

Aziraphale pulls out of the kiss, hand leaving Crowley’s belt buckle to smooth down his hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Crowley hastens to say.

“Crowley ...” His brows furrow, eyes raking over his face as he examines him. He’s a steady weight on Crowley’s lap. “You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

Crowley’s black-polished nails dig a little into Aziraphale’s sides without his meaning to. He hums, and he means for it to be an assurance, but it sounds strained and non-committal even to his own ears.

Aziraphale sits back, more pressure going to Crowley’s legs. His gaze stays concerned as he rakes his hand through Crowley’s hair, flits his fingers over his cheekbone, presses his thumb to Crowley’s swollen lips.

“Do you trust me?”

Crowley swallows and nods, his lips moving against Aziraphale’s thumb. It’s pulled away.

“To the end and back,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale leans over and kisses him, short and sweet, not like they were doing before. Then his hands move to the buttons of his shirt, and he starts to unbutton it, steady and sure.

And it’s- Okay, it’s not what Crowley expected. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it wasn’t what he wanted, but he doesn’t know what he wants out of all of this, truly. He knows he’s scared. He knows he wants to please Aziraphale. That’s all he has to go off.

Aziraphale’s shirt slips to the floor, and something happens in Crowley’s stomach, something decidedly nervous. But then Aziraphale is pulling away from him, crawling to the other end of the bed and lying down.

Crowley stares, dumbfounded.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” Aziraphale tells him. “Or just cuddling, if we can’t fall asleep.”

“I thought we were—“ Crowley clears his throat. “You know.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Aziraphale says, and holds out his arms.

Crowley’s heart hammers as he shuffles over the sheets and into Aziraphale’s waiting arms. The angel pulls him close, so Crowley is lying on top, head on his chest. He’s warm. He’s so warm.

“This is all I need,” Aziraphale says, pushing a kiss against the top of his head. “Just this.”

Crowley lets his ear fall against the angel’s chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart, and lets himself be held.


	4. Fireflies

Aziraphale gasps. Somehow, after all this time, he’d never seen them before. Even angels could have blind spots in their earthly knowledge. 

“What are they?” he asks. His grin spreads in delight as the little bug lands in his palm, glowing. 

“Fireflies,” Crowley tells him, as the little creatures float around and prod at his hands, as if in recognition. “Lightning bugs. Glow flies. Moon bugs. Blinkies. Little embers.” He growls out the last name, playful. “Fire devils.” 

The angel is so enraptured by the little glowing insect that he thinks he’s lost his attention. 

“You seem to know a lot about them,” he remarks after a moment, sparing Crowley a glance. 

Crowley hums, turning his eyes back to the little bugs. “One of mine,” he says, as casual as he can, and can’t help the pang he feels in his chest at the words. He hasn’t told Aziraphale of his time before the fall, it’s one topic they’ve never breached, but he’ll claim this one as the sin of pride if anyone asks.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap to him, then back to the bugs. A smile settles over his face. “And what did you call them?” 

The glowing bugs flit from hand to hand, little specks of yellow in the dark field. Crowley looks up, and his whole field of vision is captured by the glittering, blinking glow. 

“My little stars.” 


	5. Message for the Almighty

“Why did you let me become this?” Aziraphale knows he’s crying at this point, but he’d be damned before he could have stopped it. “I’m indulgent. I’m hedonistic. I’m materialistic. I don’t like to fight. I’m not _hard_ like the others, I’m- I’m _soft_. I’m so soft. Far more than an angel should be.” 

He wipes his cheeks, but more keep coming. “I just don’t understand. You _knew_ they would reject me, didn’t you? You created me to be an angel, and I’m just … Well, I’m bad at it. I’m a _bad angel_ , but you made me this way! You created me to be who I am and I don’t understand.” 

“They–” A sharp inhale, and his voice rises. “They don’t even _like me!_ They don’t _love_ me- The other angels, they–” A strangled sob escapes him. “They’ve rejected me: for the choices I’ve made, for the people I love, for _who I am_ , they’ve decided I’m not worthy. But I don’t- You _knew._ You knew this was who I am, because you’re the one who created me. So, why? Why create someone they wouldn’t love? You haven’t made me fall, so, what? What’s the point of making me just to be a bad angel? Why did you make me so _wrong?”_

He takes a moment to catch his breath, hands resting over his face as he breathes. He wants to say more, he wants to shout it so loud everyone in Heaven will hear, but he’s tired. He drops his hands, letting them find their place on his hips. He sniffs, cheeks wet. 

“That’s all,” he says. 

For a moment, The Metatron stares. “I’ll pass along the message.” 

And then he’s gone. 

Aziraphale breathes, in and out, each one shaky, trying to stop the steady flow of tears from his cheeks. It’s no use, he’ll be crying for a long while, he knows. Perhaps he’ll make a mug of cocoa. If he’s going to be a bad angel, might as well lean into the indulgence. 

The door clicks shut. His heart hammers. He spins. 

Crowley still has one hand on the door handle, a plastic carry-out bag in the other. He looks, frankly, devastated. 

Aziraphale wipes his cheeks, again to no avail. “How long have you been there?” 

Crowley stares for a long moment, just stares, something so sad and soft about his face. And then he clears his throat, and drops the bag to the floor right in front of the door. “Do you really think all that?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and his voice cracks on the word, just a little. “It’s hard not to.” 

Crowley crosses over to him. Before he knows it, Aziraphale’s face is between his hands. Crowley’s thumbs brush over his cheeks, catching the tears as they fall. 

“You are you, Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, hands warm on either side of his face, so serious in his tone, “soft and everything, because that’s who you are, and who you’ve decided to be. You _love_ being soft. You _love_ being indulgent. You’re kind and doting, and you’re clever and fierce. Not because that’s who you were meant to be, but because that’s who you love being, and what you decided to make of yourself. And you don’t have to answer for that to anyone. Not to me, not to the angels, not even to Her. And you certainly don’t have to apologize for it.” 

Crowley can feel his blush, Aziraphale’s sure of it, with the way his cheeks flush with heat. 

“I just feel like …” Aziraphale swallows, unsure. “I feel sometimes like there are things that were created to hurt. And I want to know why.” 

“That’s a dangerous question,” Crowley says, something low and heavy in his voice. “And one that you need to answer for yourself, because She’s not going to tell you.” 

Aziraphale nods, because he knows. He understands, deeply now, why Crowley fell all those years ago. 

“I’m a bad angel,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“No.” He moves his hand to cup the back of Aziraphale’s head, pulling him until the angel’s forehead meets his lips. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” 


	6. Chesed

It’s not very dignified, but they’re both sprawled on the floor of the shop. They couldn’t even claim to be drunk, just exhausted. Master Warlock had given both of them the runaround that day, and they could feel all 6,000 years in the ache of their muscles. Their disguises have been shed, besides the pink of Crowley’s lips. 

“Well, why do the demons even _want_ to end the world, anyway?” Aziraphale asks, more talking out loud than a real question. He doesn’t expect Crowley to answer, so he continues. “There’s so much to love about it. The food, the dancing. Books. Plays. The feeling when you find exactly what you didn’t know you were looking for at the exact time you needed it.” 

Crowley hums, eyes closed. 

“I suppose demons are incapable of it.” 

One yellow eye opens a sliver. “Of what?” 

“Love.” 

Despite his aches and pains, Crowley pushes himself sitting. “You really think that?” 

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to hum, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his stomach. “Demons aren’t exactly known for their heavenly virtues. And, anyway, I’d be able to sense it.” 

Crowley squints at him, suspicious. “The love, you mean?” 

Aziraphale’s lips twist, nose scrunching as he thinks. “Sort of. Not quite. It’s a bit different for places and people. Places can’t be virtuous. Holy, sure, but not virtuous. They can _feel loved_ , but it’s the people who do the loving. It’s not the love I feel on people, though. Everyone loves things. Sometimes good things, sometimes bad. It’s the virtue. Not love, not quite. More like _chesed_.” 

“Lovingkindness,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale nods, looking only a little surprised that he knew. “Benevolence, kindness, charity … it leaves a mark on a person. You can see it, if you know what you’re looking for.” 

“But you have to be looking.” Crowley’s chin finds his hand, propped on his knee. His nails are still painted black–it was the only thing he wouldn’t give up for his role as nanny. 

“Well, yes. Sometimes it’s obvious. Not all the time.” 

Crowley hums. His fingers tap his cheek. “But demons … They’re not capable of love, you said.” 

Aziraphale blushes a little, looking away. “Well, not in the traditional sense, no … _Chesed_ sort of goes against a demon’s MO.” His eyes drift back. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” 

“You didn’t,” Crowley is quick to say, hand posturing as he looks away. “Didn’t hurt my feelings. Just incriminated yourself a little, is all.” 

The angel’s brows furrow. “How do you mean?” 

“Well, you must be really bad at looking.” 

He stares for a moment. His brows stay scrunched as he hefts himself up, scooting closer. One hand reaches out, finding Crowley’s chin. He tilts his face this way and that, Crowley all the while holding his gaze. 

“Oh,” the angel says. 

“Can’t find what you don’t look for,” Crowley says, his voice low and rumbling between them. 

They’re both pointedly aware of Aziraphale’s fingers still on his chin. 

“I suppose you’re right.” 

“Never thought to check, hmm?” Crowley asks, a hint of teasing in his tone. 

Aziraphale flushes, a single chuckle escaping him. “Bit of an oversight.” 

The corner of Crowley’s lip twitches. He starts to lean forward. “Look a little harder next time.” 

Their foreheads meet each other. Aziraphale’s hand moves to cup his cheek. 

“Won’t have to. I already found it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm taking prompts on tumblr if anyone wants to throw me one!


	7. Memories

Sometimes Aziraphale feels _old_. Or, he feels weary and achy and _tired_. He is old, that’s for certain, but angels don’t really get old. He’d been wearing this face since the dawn of time, and sometimes his cheeks were plumper or thinner, and sometimes there were bags under his eyes, but it hadn’t aged a day. Sometimes he remembers the inquisitions, the revolutions, the crusades, the war and the horror of it all, and he laments how much his years have let him see. 

And then Crowley will do something like start humming. He’s wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesn’t have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimal--no silly human classification. He’s not an _animal_ , he has a system, it’s just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because he’s putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions. 

He can’t place the tune. It’s familiar, so familiar, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen. 

Crowley finally notices him, but doesn’t stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing. 

“What _is_ that tune?” Aziraphale finally asks. “It’s driving me mad.” 

Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. “Willard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was _handsome_.” 

Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. They’d been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the man’s deft fingers. “Ah.” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like there’d been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when they’d heard him play. “I do remember, yes. I thought he’d be famous. Pity no one remembers.” 

“We do,” Crowley says, and goes back to humming. 

Or that time he stops by Crowley’s flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. He’s positively glowering when Aziraphale enters. 

Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. “Whatever are you cooking?” 

“Stew,” Crowley responds glumly. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. I can’t get it right.” 

“Part of the joy of stew is that you don’t have to get it right.” He waves his hands. “The pot does most of the work.” 

Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. “No, it’s ... It’s a specific stew. I’ve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and ...” He cuts himself off. 

“Crowley--” Aziraphale squints suspiciously. “How old is this recipe, exactly?” 

Crowley sighs, already defeated. “Mesopotamia?” he ekes out, abashed. 

Aziraphale _laughs_. “Oh, good! It’ll be a challenge, then.” He pulls the spoon from Crowley’s hand, taking a sip. “Juniper berries,” he decides. “You need juniper berries.” 

Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. It’s one of the rare moments when they’re both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting. 

Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but he’s been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over. 

“Ah, young master Warlock,” he says, peering over their shoulders. “What a wonderful drawing you’ve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?” 

Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. “Nanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.” 

Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesn’t look back. 

Warlock pipes up again. “Nanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?” 

“Did she now?” Aziraphale asks. It’s hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. “Big ‘ol lizards,” he’d said, “just _huge_ , you know. Like a dragon, but they’ll think they’re real, see. Biggest things ever. ‘ould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.” 

Warlock nods. “My favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.” 

Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what she’s drawing, and stops. It’s the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon he’s ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. They’d seen them together, before, before they’d all gotten hunted out. 

“It’s a lovely drawing, Nanny,” he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be. 

The pencil stops, then keeps going. 

Warlock looks up at him again. “Nanny says she ate the last one.” 

“I did,” Nanny Ashtoreth responds. “And don’t you forget it.” 

It’s the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. It’s the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the _experiencing_ , but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time. 

They’re curled up in bed, two commas together, and it’s been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale can’t seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss. 

Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. “Tell me good things,” he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder. 

_Do you remember?_ Crowley asks, and keeps going. _Do you remember, do you remember?_

_Yes,_ Aziraphale responds. _Yes, yes, I do now._

They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and it’s easier. It doesn’t take away all the bad that he’s seen, but it’s easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isn’t gone, but there’s good, too, pushing it’s way in to make room. 

_Do you remember when we met?_ Crowley whispers, their hands linking. 

Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does. 

_I remember,_ he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still taking prompts on tumblr!


	8. Panic Attacks

By the time Aziraphale realizes it’s not Gabriel, it’s too late. His brow has already started to spot with sweat, his throat constricting. He doesn’t really need oxygen, but it’s something he’s gotten used to. He likes the feeling of breathing, of his lungs expanding again and again, in and out, something measured and almost ritualistic about it. Really, it’s just a habit at this point. So, though it’s technically unnecessary, it’s with shaking, desperate hands that he starts clawing at his bowtie, trying to get the fabric as far from his choking throat as he can. 

It’s not Gabriel. The man had cut his silhouette from behind, but the difference was clear once he’d turned. His body, however, doesn’t seem to have gotten that message. 

Crowley’s head swivels lazily, and it’s a stark difference from his usual slouch the way his body tenses and jumps forward when he takes in Aziraphale’s red face. 

“Angel? Angel, what’s wrong?” 

_That_ , Aziraphale wants to say. _Angel- I thought he was an angel! That’s what’s wrong!_ But all happens is a gasping inhale that sounds on the verge of a wheeze as he finally gets his bowtie off and top button undone.

Crowley scans the park, on the look-out for threats, but quickly his attention returns. His hands are out, like he’s not sure where to put them. Finally, they land, one on Aziraphale’s shoulder and one on his bicep.

“Okay,” Crowley says, and though he may be trying for calming, he’s clearly panicked. “Alright, let’s just breathe. One deep breath, can you try?”

Aziraphale tries, he gives it an honest shot, but his body isn’t cooperating, and he gets halfway through before it seizes in his throat. One of his hands shoots out of its own accord, finding Crowley’s leg.

Crowley’s hand covers his own. “Okay,” he says, “okay, hey, we’re fine, yeah? Everything’s fine.”

Aziraphale gulps and squeezes, because it’s much too hot, and he doesn’t know when that happened. It’d been a perfectly nice day a few moments ago. He wants to tell Crowley, _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be making a scene, all this fuss for nothing really_ , but instead what comes out is a strangled whine. His eyes clench tight in embarrassment.

“Alright. Alright, come on, let’s go.”

Crowley tugs him up, one guiding hand on his back. Aziraphale stumbles blindly forward, and suddenly the ground feels different beneath his feet. When he opens his eyes, they’re in front of the bookshop, which Crowley unlocks with a snap of his fingers.

“In we go. Come on.”

Aziraphale allows himself to be led to the backroom, falling heavy on the couch. Crowley kneels in front of him, one hand on his shoulder. The other finds Aziraphale’s own, leading it up to be pressed against Crowley’s chest. There’s a heartbeat beneath his palm, slow and steady. Aziraphale takes a shaking breath, trying to hone in on the sensation.

“Just focus,” Crowley says, and his voice is low and as soothing as he’s ever heard it. “Just focus. Nothing’s wrong. We’re safe, we’re fine. Nothing exists except this room, okay? I want you to focus on that. Just your breath and what you can feel right now.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and tries to breathe. He starts counting Crowley’s heartbeats, _one two, three four, five six_ , and the answering pound seems to get stronger in response. Beneath his hand he can feel Crowley’s chest rising and falling, slow, deep breaths, as if in example. The fabric of his shirt is soft on his fingers, and he can feel the warmth that leaves his skin. It’s not so hot in here, not so bright. There’s only black behind his eyelids. Just cool and dark.

“That’s it,” Crowley says, a low murmur. “In and out. Slow as you can.”

Aziraphale breathes. His lungs fill all the way, and his exhale is smooth. He’s almost too embarrassed to open his eyes, but he does, letting his gaze find their hands on Crowley’s chest. Black wings surround them both, only a dim yellow light filtering in from between them. That’s why it’d gotten so dark.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his cheeks flushing.

Crowley ignores the apology, thumb rubbing along the side of Aziraphale’s hand. “Has that happened before?”

“Once or twice. Here and there,” Aziraphale admits. “Recently,” he adds on, grudging. He swallows. “You seemed to know what to do.”

Crowley’s lips twitch, and Aziraphale can’t tell if he’s looking away under his glasses. “’s easier when you have someone else there,” he says, and Aziraphale can only infer what he means. “You should have told me.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale hums.

“I’m serious.”

“Didn’t want to be a bother.”

“That’s a stupid reason,” Crowley says, but there’s no bite in his voice. Aziraphale knows what he means by it. He’d be flattered, if he didn’t still feel the stinging flush of shame.

“Thought I- um—” He clears his throat. “Saw Gabriel. In the park. That’s why I- Well …”

He’s glad, suddenly, that Crowley still has his glasses on. He’d hate to see any pity in his eyes.

“You know what I’d do?” Crowley asks. “If I saw him?”

Aziraphale blinks away a sudden wetness in his eyes, brows knitting in curiosity.

“Open up the ground. Drop him right into the hound pit. Let Beelzebub and their lot deal with the rest.”

A little laugh huffs out of him. He should chastise him for having such a thought, but he knows the hypothetical is only for his amusement.

“You’d only get us into more trouble,” Aziraphale can’t help saying, though he’s fond.

“Maybe,” Crowley agrees. “Let them come for us. See what happens.”

“Awfully confident.”

Crowley hums. He lifts Aziraphale’s hand, pressing a kiss against his palm. “There’s nothing more ferocious—” Crowley growls into his skin, looking at him over the top of his glasses. Aziraphale can see just a hint of teasing along with the serious glare of those yellow eyes. “-than a demon with something to protect.”

Something warm flushes Aziraphale’s chest. “And I suppose that’s me, then, is it?”

“Always has been, angel,” Crowley says, quirking a grin, “Always has been.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still taking prompts on tumblr @ buckysbears


	9. True Names

Crowley raises a thin finger to point. It’s sort of moot–the sky is full of stars, and he’s pointing in the vague direction of about a dozen of them, a few dozen, maybe, all clustered together. Anathema amicably tracks her eyes in that direction. 

“The humans call that one Bootes.” His finger draws a vague shape. Anathema can see where he’s pointing now, the body and legs of it. 

“But you call it something different?” She adjusts herself on the blanket beneath them, a little rock digging into her shoulder. It’s a little chilly for her here, even in the summer, but she’s been comfortable ever since Aziraphale drew the garden chair next to them and settled in with his book. He’d made a comment about the chill and then it had, miraculously, warmed. 

“I don’t know if the angels have their own name for it–” 

“We do,” Aziraphale pipes in. 

“But Downstairs we call it Henry VIII. Terrible deeds get stars named after you, down there. Or rock faces, sometimes. Park benches, if you were just mostly annoying.” 

Anathema looks toward him, letting her eyebrows draw in confusion. “Henry VIII? Am I supposed to know him?” 

Crowley’s mouth gapes as he looks at her. He starts to splutter. “I- He- Of- Of course, he was- You really can’t–” 

“If it wasn’t in Agnes’s book, I probably don’t know it.” 

She makes the smile stay off her face. She was always good at looking serious, even as a child. 

Crowley opens and closes his mouth a few times, and finally sighs. “The American education system, I swear. That one was one of ours, I bet.” 

Aziraphale flips a page. “She has a PhD in history, dear.” 

The demon’s yellow eyes flick between them a few times, finally settling on the smile that crawls across her face. “Oh, you- Oh, _wily_.” 

Anathema snorts, letting her hands fall together on her stomach. She tilts her head back up the sky. “It’s interesting that things have different names. Do the stars have a name that’s correct? Or does it depend on who you ask?” 

“Like a true name?” Crowley clears his throat. “There are true names, yeah. For lots of things.” 

“Like people?” 

Crowley tilts his head towards her, studying the side of her face. “Yeah, people too.” 

Anathema hums, not looking at him. “So I’d have one?” 

Aziraphale folds his book in his lap. “Everyone does,” he says, cautious and soft.

“What’s mine?” 

Aziraphale and Crowley glance at each other. The angel’s lips purse. 

“Well, it’s in Celestial. You wouldn’t be able to say it.” 

“Or hear it,” Crowley adds. “Would melt your ears right off, probably.” 

Anathema clears her throat and blinks a few tears out of her eyes. “That’s fine.” 

Another exchanged glance. “Anything the matter?” 

She doesn’t look at either of them, her hands joining tighter. “Anathema. _Anathema._ ” She tastes it on her tongue, nose wrinkling. “Denounced. Sacrifice. Cursed. Evil. It’s an ugly name. Means ugly things.” 

There’s silence for a moment. Neither of them seem to know what to say. 

“Sorry,” she says, clearing her throat again. 

“I think it’s quite lovely, because it’s yours,” Aziraphale says. 

Anathema hums. 

“But if it’s any consolation,” he continues, “your true name is … Well. I’m not quite sure how to describe it.” 

“Tastes like mint,” Crowley supplies. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale decides. “Yes, that’s it, like peppermint.” 

“Oh.” Anathema twiddles her thumbs, squinting up at the stars, though she doesn’t need to with her glasses on. “Peppermint is used for healing. It’s lucky, too.” 

Crowley whispers something under his breath. “Sort of … blue, too.” 

“More purple,” Aziraphale says. “You’ve always been bad with colors.” 

“Peppermint and purple.” She thinks about it. “Yeah, I can live with that.” 

They’re silent for a few moments, then Crowley turns to look at her. “You don’t have to keep it, you know,” he says. “Anathema. You could change it, if you like. Nothing wrong with that.” 

She sighs. “My mother wouldn’t be happy.” 

“Sometimes you have to do things that make _you_ happy,” Crowley says, and there’s something suspiciously soft about his voice. “And other people might be mad about that, and that’s okay.” 

“Yeah.” She thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah. I think that’s something I need to learn in general.” 

“What would you change it to,” Aziraphale asks, “if you changed it?” 

Her lips twist as she thinks. 

“Peppermint,” she decides. “And purple.” 


	10. Letters

The last of the letters he’ll never actually send starts with _Dear heart_ , but we’re not there yet.

The first of the letters he’ll never send starts with _Dear Crawley_ , because at the time he’d honestly forgotten. He didn’t know the demon well back then, and it had been several thousand years that he’d known him by that name. Aziraphale remembers the change about halfway through the letter, and that’s when he decides to call the whole thing off. He folds the paper with sharp, neat creases, tucks it between the feathers of his wings, and forgets about it.

It had been a silly idea, anyway. Writing a letter to a demon. The other knights wrote letters—to distant kings, to family, to lovers—and he thought … Well, he didn’t know what he thought. The parchment and quill had been a gift from Gawain, and he truly did hate to see it go to waste. But what was he to do? Send the king’s fastest horse to find the black knight, not for a battle, not for a challenge, just a hi, hello, how do you do. It was silly. The letter itches in the feathers of his wing for a while, but soon the thought is lost to time.

It’s several hundred years later before the _Dear Crowley_ , touches down on paper. That’s all that lives there for a while, just the two words, alone but together, separate but together. His chest aches. A few spots get on his paper, and he’s sure the salt water will warp it, but if Crowley asks, he’ll say he spilled his drink. He isn’t sure what to say. _Dear Crowley_ , the paper reads, and it’s a long time before he continues. _The humans have the most terrible machine. A little canon that spits fire, small enough to carry into battle or home alike. It’s a devilish invention. It could wipe the lot of them out if they were so inclined. Tell me it wasn’t you._ His hand hovers before he writes the _Please_.

He folds the letter and sticks it between his primaries, and that’s where it stays.

He writes many such letters over the years. Wearing a black glove and a long, black mask he writes, _Dear Crowley_. Sitting beneath the fresh paint of the cathedral he writes, _Dear Crowley_. Sitting in his bed at the inn, smelling of metal and oil with ink stains on his fingers he writes, _Dear Crowley_. Grass beneath him, stars above him, telescope next to him, _Dear Crowley_. Seasick, _Dear Crowley_. Homesick, _Dear Crowley_.

_Dear Crowley, Dear Crowley, Dear Crowley_.

He never sends them. One by one, crisply folded paper by folded paper, they thicken his wings with the other things he stores in them for safekeeping: a necklace (from Crowley), a flower (from Crowley), a sketch by the great da Vinci (commissioned for him by Crowley). His wings ache sometimes with the weight of it all, and he’s sure at this point he couldn’t fly with them even if he wanted to.

He has an early copy of _The Prelude_ under his fingers, and he won’t say how he got it. He usually is staunchly against marking up a book, especially an early draft such as this, but he can’t help it. Crowley, the few times he’s seen him read, has no hesitations in putting ink over ink, in dog-earing and folding and licking his fingers as he flicks the pages. If he has a thought, the thought belongs to the book as well, put onto the page, his own text next to the original, permanent and lasting and there. In the corner beside _”Head after head, and never heads enough / For those that bade them fall”_ he marks in his own addition with shaking fingers. _Dear Crowley_ , he writes, because he can’t help this, he can’t help preface his thoughts with this now, _I think I’m terribly lonely_. He does the unthinkable and rips the page, sticking it between his feathers.

It's a long time before his wings grow too heavy, before he finally has to unburden himself and shake all the loose things free. His feathers are mussed. They haven’t been cleaned in a long time. His shoulders burn with the weight of it all. But it’s time.

It’s by the water that he does it, standing in front of the channel. Their cottage isn’t far, but he’d requested his walk for this evening be taken alone. He’s made sure there isn’t a soul to spot him. It’s just him and the water and the stars shining above.

He pulls the first letter from his wing, and there’s a sharp pain in its absence as he drops it into the water. The paper sparkles and fizzes and disappears.

He pulls the next one and the next one, and soon enough there’s nothing left. Just wings that haven’t felt so light in eons, and, in his pocket, a blank sheet and a pen.

He sits on a little bench overlooking the water, hand spread to keep the paper down in the breeze, and he writes.

_Dear heart_ , the letter reads. _I love you with all of me._

He goes home, and Crowley is asleep, curled up on himself in their bed. Aziraphale watches him in the doorway for a while, his shoulders free, his back light. He feels like he’s breathing for the first time in a while, and the letter tingles against his fingers.

He steps forward, leans down, and presses a kiss against the demon’s forehead. The letter is slipped without notice under his pillow. If Crowley finds it, it’ll be the first of his letters to be read.

And if Crowley doesn’t … 

Aziraphale smiles.

It’ll just be his secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still taking prompts on tumblr @ buckysbears!


	11. Sleep

“It’s _stupid_ that there are no power plugs in here,” Crowley griped, pulling from his crouch and kicking at the table as if it was the table’s fault there was no plug behind it. “And my stupid phone just _had_ to get wet and die because of that _stupid storm_ that came out of nowhere.”

A wet phone wouldn’t be helped by being plugged into an electrical socket, but Crowley remained unaware of this, and had managed to avoid being electrocuted by ignorance alone.

“And for what! We didn’t even get to see the movie. Of course it was sold out. And of course you wouldn’t miracle us some tickets because ‘there are a limited number of seats’ and ‘we’d be depriving others of seeing it’.” Crowley screwed his face into a mocking expression and mumbled something incomprehensible. He huffed, tossing his wet phone onto the table with a pointed _clunk_.

Aziraphale stood, watching him. His hands were clasped in front of him to stop them from fidgeting. If his face was flushed, he hoped Crowley thought it was from the cold rain and not his embarrassment. He didn’t mean for Crowley to have a bad time, obviously. But he felt responsible. It seemed everything had gone wrong during their little outing, and while, yes, technically none of it had been his fault, it was, also technically, his fault that he hadn’t done anything to fix them. He could’ve booked tickets early. He could have, if he’d wanted to, changed the names on them so they could see it instead of someone else. If he wanted to stop the rain, he could’ve, but at the least he might’ve brought an umbrella. The restaurant, he’d wanted to go to, and Crowley’s food had been bad. It was an unfortunate day, overall, and the demon seemed none too happy about it.

He cleared his throat, as quietly as he could. His hands wrung. The ”I’m sorry” was almost out of his mouth when Crowley spoke again.

“Whatever,” he snapped, raising both hands to rub slow circles over his eyes.

Beneath them were rings of purple, and Aziraphale saw this as the glasses dropped back over his eyes.

“Oh,” he said.

“What?” Crowley bit out, and Aziraphale now noticed the way he was leaning heavily against the wall.

He stepped forward cautiously, one foot at a time. Crowley watched him as he did so, head tilted away in apprehension.

“What?” Crowley asked again, slower.

Aziraphale finally stood in front of him, one hand out and waiting. “Come here.”

Crowley swallowed, and Aziraphale could just make out the flick of his eyes down to his hand and back up. “Why?”

“Trust me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley let his hand fall onto Aziraphale’s, and the angel pulled him away from the wall, across the room, and positioned him in front of the couch. With slow hands, every movement telegraphed and obvious, Aziraphale pulled off Crowley’s jacket, folding it primly and setting it aside. He reached up and undid his tie, letting it fall from his neck. Both hands pushed on Crowley’s shoulders until he sat, and Aziraphale knelt to the floor to untie his shoes.

He untied them slowly, right foot and then the left, before he slipped them off and sat them away. He let his hands hover, just for a moment, before he went to his socks. Crowley never let _anyone_ see him without socks. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was embarrassed of the black scales that dotted the tops of his feet and toes. It was something he couldn’t hide, like his eyes. Unfortunately, the socks had gotten wet in the rain, and they couldn’t be comfortable.

Aziraphale slipped the socks away, rolled them into a ball, and stuck them into Crowley’s left shoe. Finally, one hand on Crowley’s knee for balance, he reached up and slid the glasses off his face.

Crowley blinked, tired and slow. The bags beneath his eyes were worse now that Aziraphale could get a good look at them, and the whites of his eyes were pink. Aziraphale didn’t need to sleep, not really, but the demon had gotten used to it in the thousands of years he’d been on Earth. It seemed a habit that was hard to kick.

The glasses were folded and placed on top of his jacket.

“That’s better,” Aziraphale said. He stood and then moved past Crowley, settling on the couch, his back against a pillow by the arm. He smiled and held out a hand. “Come here,” he said. “Trust me.”

Crowley stared for a moment, but already, Aziraphale could see he was wavering. He fought off a yawn successfully, but couldn’t help reaching upwards to rub at his eyes again.

“Just this once,” he eventually mumbled, and Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley shifted and laid down, his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale raised his arm to support him. The demon shivered slightly and pressed closer for warmth, one hand coming up to fist in the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt.

Aziraphale started to hum, and he didn’t know what, really, just some tune he had picked up from somewhere. Crowley sighed as Aziraphale’s chest rumbled beneath him, turning his face to push closer.

A lullaby, Aziraphale thought. If only he could remember which one.

It didn’t seem to matter, in any case. It wasn’t long before Crowley was asleep.

Aziraphale smiled, letting his head fall back and his eyes fall closed. If he had saved his miracles today just for this, it was well worth the wait. He continued to hum, hand rubbing up and down Crowley’s arm, and he wished Crowley this: A restful sleep, and to dream of whatever he liked best.


	12. Angel Wedding

They’re sitting idly, and Crowley is knitting, because that’s what he’s taken to doing as they sit idly. They can do that now, just sit, just be together, not having to worry about the angels or the demons or the end of the world. Aziraphale always reads his books, and Crowley never had anything to do except drum his fingers and swirl his drink and make pestering comments until Aziraphale gave up on reading entirely. One day, Aziraphale finally plunked a knitting book in his lap, stuffed his hands with yarn and said, “Please entertain yourself, dear. I’ll never finish a book at this rate.” The rest is, as they say, history. Crowley took to the practice like a snake to slithering.

Now, Crowley is knitting, and pretending not to notice that Aziraphale has forgotten he’s supposed to, on occasion, flip a page. The angel is rubbing the tail end of the yarn between his fingers, brows furrowed in thought.

Crowley continues to knit, lips slightly pursed so as to not smile. He’ll come out with it eventually, and he does.

“Do you remember soul bonds?” he says, and Crowley almost chokes on his tongue.

“Um.” He does. He’s probably the only demon who does, at this point. “What of them?”

Aziraphale finally looks up at him, something sad and soft and aching and hopeful about him. “I was just- Well, you know. Giving them some thought, recently.”

“Were you?” he says, and this is all he manages to say.

“Yes.” He looks like he wants to elaborate, but he looks away. He wants Crowley to give a different answer, ask a different question, Crowley knows.

He sighs and sets aside his needles. There’s some sort of pressure building up in his chest. “I don’t …” He drifts off, and Aziraphale peeks at him from the corner of his eye, already looking afraid and hurt. “I don’t know if I could. I’m not an angel anymore.”

“But would you want to?” Aziraphale whispers. He swallows. “Hypothetically. If you could.”

Crowley’s head falls back against the couch. “Hypothetically?” The pressure is nerves, he realizes. He’s nervous. Enormously so. He swallows, hands tightening. “Hypothetically, I … Well, you know what a soul bond means. It means forever, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinks a few times, and then smiles in that way that means he’s trying not to cry. “I see,” he says, and Crowley scrambles to correct himself.

“I didn’t- It’s not—” He hisses, pinching at his nose. He does it as an excuse to shut his eyes, which are uncovered and watering. “I only mean … how do I know you’ll want me that long?”

His eyes stay shut, and Aziraphale doesn’t answer. They stay shut even when his hand falls away, as his eyebrows pinch and his head tilts down, as the silence stretches and the pressure builds in his chest.

“You silly boy,” Aziraphale says eventually, and his eyes open. “You absolutely foolish boy.”

Aziraphale is smiling at him. It wasn’t what he expected.

The angel moves from his place on the couch and comes closer, closer until he’s in his lap, a leg to either side of Crowley’s. Crowley looks up at him as Aziraphale cups his face between his hands and leans forward to kiss his forehead.

“Silly, foolish boy,” Aziraphale says, as soft as he’s ever said anything.

“I might take offence, you know,” Crowley says, swallowing, “if you keep saying that.”

“You think I won’t want you forever?” Aziraphale smiles, and kisses at his face again. “I’ve wanted you since the world began.” Another kiss. “Since you hung the stars in the sky.” Another. “I wanted you when the world was ending, and when it didn’t, and when the world is too fast, and right now, when the two of us exist and nothing else. You think I won’t want you tomorrow, or the next day, or when we’re a hundred-thousand? You think I won’t want you when there’s nothing left but stars? If you think I won’t want you forever, you’re a fool, Crowley, and I’ll prove it right now.”

Crowley stares up at him, fighting a smile, fighting tears, and says, “Prove it, then.”

Aziraphale leads him outside, and it’s chilly, but the angel’s hand in his is radiating warmth, and it travels through Crowley’s body so that he doesn’t even feel the cold. They stand on the sidewalk for a while, they wind pushing stray leaves along the ground, and look up at the sky.

Aziraphale reaches up.

The light starts to swirl, the stars flicker, and from the air he draws a glowing thread. It’s made of starstuff, Crowley knows, Crowley remembers from way back when, made of the same stuff that built the whole universe. He’d seen this ceremony a time or two, when he was still an angel. The demons had all forgotten. They didn’t want to remember any sort of absolute, everlasting love. 

The thread coils in Aziraphale’s waiting hand, and he turns. Crowley turns to face him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and finally settles in a smile. “Do you wish to be bound?”

And that’s the thing about the binding—it’s the _wishing_ that matters, it’s the _want_ that’s important, or it doesn’t work. You can’t be bound unless you really want to, unless you really mean it. It’s a promise. It’s the one promise that can never be broken.

Crowley swallows, and holds up his hand. “I want for nothing more.”

Their fingers intertwine. The thread, he starts to wrap around them. It clings and coils them closer, their palms warm together, their fingers tight. The thread holds them close, and it’ll hold them there forever, even when they’re apart.

Crowley watches him as he goes. The glow lights up his face and dances in his eyes.

He can’t help it. He really can’t. As soon as the binding is finished, as soon as the thread has wrapped in plenty around their hands and twined their fingers, Crowley leans forward and kisses him. Kissing was a human invention. It had no place in a ceremony like this, in something that existed before there even was such thing as a human. But, sometimes change is good. Sometimes you make adjustments.

The thread glows bright, and Crowley pulls away. Its warmth grows, burning hotter than the suns Crowley once hung in the sky. It doesn’t hurt. It feels sort of wonderful, actually.

When it’s done, there’s a mark around them both, a coiled line of light that lies smooth on their skin. A human would see it as nothing more than a mark, a tattoo done in white or black or purple perhaps, nothing they could be sure of, nothing they’d be able to look at too closely. The angels and the demons, however, would see it for what it is. Two souls bound together by the fabric of the universe itself.

What Aziraphale and Crowley see is the promise of it—the _we_ , the _us_ , the _our_ , and the knowledge that, after all this time, it’s something they can finally agree on.


	13. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: touch + an apology

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, and kisses him, and Crowley only knows he’s crying by the salt water that trickles down to their conjoined lips. “I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, kissing him again. He pulls away, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, hands on Crowley’s cheek and in Crowley’s hair, and says, “I’m sorry.” He dips down and kisses his jaw, “I’m sorry.” He kisses his neck below his ear, “I’m sorry.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, trying to gather his head. This is the first time they’ve done this, the first time in 6,000 years, and this isn’t how it was supposed to go. The tears, the apologies—this isn’t right. “Angel,” he says again. “Aziraphale.” Finally, he gets his palms on Aziraphale’s cheeks and pulls the angel where he can see him. Aziraphale’s eyes are red, his cheeks are wet under Crowley’s palms. “Aziraphale, what are you sorry for?”

Aziraphale’s lips quiver. He leans into Crowley’s hand.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I do,” Aziraphale says. His eyes shut, and he swallows. “Oh, my dear, I have so much. Six-thousand years of sorry, if you can believe.”

Crowley’s thumb catches another tear as it falls, and Aziraphale opens his eyes to rake them over Crowley’s face, drinking in every curve and wrinkle, every point and spot.

Crowley shakes his head, because he doesn’t believe it, he doesn’t believe there’s anything that he _should_ be this sorry for, this upset over, not right now.

Aziraphale breathes, and raises a hand to grab at Crowley’s wrist. “I’m sorry for waiting,” he says, and the tenderness in his voice, the sadness, and the tingle on Crowley’s lips hits like a punch to his stomach. “I’m sorry for being scared. I’m sorry I let them intimidate me. I’m sorry I didn’t see who my true friends were sooner, and I’m sorry I didn’t see who truly loved me sooner. I’m sorry I said we weren’t friends. I’m sorry I said I didn’t like you. I’m sorry I told you that you go too fast. When Adam and Eve took my sword, I’m sorry we didn’t run away together right then, right at the beginning, and never look back. I’m sorry if you ever felt lonely when you were waiting on me. I’m sorry for making you wait on me. I’m sorry, so terribly sorry, that I didn’t do this sooner.”

Crowley swallows, and his eyebrows furrow. His thumb smooths over Aziraphale’s cheek. “It was worth the wait.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lower, and he shakes his head, squeezing at Crowley’s wrist. “You’ve been beside me this whole time,” he says in a whisper, “holding your hand out and waiting for me to take it. And I was too … I was too scared. I was frightened. I shouldn’t have been. You’ve always been the safest place in the universe, I shouldn’t have been scared.”

Crowley blinks, and then lets his hand find its place between them. Aziraphale looks at it, looks up at him, and then joins their hands together. Crowley pulls them against his heart.

“Your apology isn’t necessary, but I accept it anyway.”

Aziraphale nods, smiling cautiously.

“But what you have to realize is that I never wanted you to be sorry. I never wanted you to feel guilty. I wanted _you_ , Aziraphale, and that’s different. If that was hurting you, that’s something I’m sorry for as well. But that’s the past now. The past is long and winding, and sometimes it likes to pretend, like anything else, that it’s more important than it is. But the past can only harm us if we let it into the present. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to let it ruin what I have right here in this moment.”

The smile grows, and Aziraphale’s hand squeezes against his. “And what’s that?” he asks, with just a hint of teasing.

“You,” Crowley says, and leans forward to kiss his forehead. “It’s all that I wanted.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me and my ficlets on tumblr @ buckysbears


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